“Everything okay over there, Falcon?” Roslyn asked, using Shawn’s old call sign.
He decided to inquire later how she’d discovered what it was. “Fine, Raven. Fine. Just dandy, in fact.”
“Dandy? I didn’t know anyone used that one anymore.”
“Well, now you know someone who does.”
“Fair enough. Stand by for sim closure and system sealing.”
“Standing by.” Shawn made sure all his hoses and limbs were inside the sphere as the hatch started closing. When the lid was firmly shut, there was a nearly silent hiss as the chamber sealed itself, airtight against the room outside.
“Hatches are secured and sealed,” Drake said through Shawn’s headset. “Stand by for liquid injection.”
“Wait, what liquid?” Shawn asked nervously.
“I told you this would be a lot different than anything you were used to, sir. There is a micro-thin layer of a super-viscous liquid that’s injected between the inner and outer shells of the sphere. The inner shell is then rotated electromagnetically while the outer shell remains virtually motionless. Since it reduces friction to zero-point-two percent, it more accurately portrays flight conditions.”
Shawn slipped on his flight gloves, careful not to touch any of the controls. “Now I know how the chicken feels right before it hatches.”
Drake’s voice came back over Shawn’s headset. “Once the injection process is complete, all your systems will come online.”
“Good, it’s getting a little…crowded in here.”
“You’re not claustrophobic, are you?” Roslyn asked, her voice colored with concern.
“No, not at all. I love feeling like I’m about to be hard-boiled.”
“Injection complete,” Drake said a moment later. “Sims are stable and the inner chambers are magnetically secure. Your systems should be coming online…now.”
Just as Drake finished saying the word, all Shawn’s systems came online. The center screen was now displaying a damage control image of the fighter in the top left corner, and a target status screen in the upper right. Below the target scan display was the navigational readout of near space, including everything the ship’s sensors could discern. The triangular screens were displaying fuel consumption, particle and beam weapon power levels on the left, with missile complement, deflector status, and a few icons Shawn had never seen before on the right.
Suddenly there was movement above the center of the middle screen as a small flap opened and a smaller square display folded up and lay flat above the larger screen. A moment later a three-dimensional image of Raven appeared in full color and at an exceptionally high resolution. It looked as if a micro version of the lieutenant commander were actually sitting on top of the screen. As Shawn tilted his head around the image, he could actually look at the back of her helmet.
“Amazing.”
“The sensors in the cockpit are linked to receptors in your helmet. In short, it knows what you’re looking at. And, if you think that’s fun, then you haven’t seen anything yet. Each control you see is completely interactive and customizable. You can move them, change their shape and color, and alter what they do and which systems they manage.”
He was quickly becoming overwhelmed. “I think I’m fine with it the way it is.”
“Suit yourself,” the image said with a shrug. “Each smaller screen can be pressed to show a more detailed image. Since the system is both visually and tactilely controlled, you can even drag the image onto any view port in the craft.”
Shawn tested this by enlarging the radar display with a wave of his hand and then, with a flick of his wrist, flung the glowing image directly onto the canopy in front of him. “Very nice.”
“Also, most of the systems can either be voice-controlled or manually operated. The fighter’s built-in computer can process any request you make instantly, so the faster you talk the faster the ship responds. The synaptic sensors built inside your helmet likewise allow for limited control manipulation.”
Thinking back to the malfunctioning terminals in the Rhea’s corridors, Shawn felt slightly uncomfortable at that revelation. “You mean this thing can read your thoughts?”
The image of Raven’s head shook back and forth. “No, not directly. It’s easier to say it reads your impulses. For example, it scans for the electrical charges your brain sends to your muscles to move your hand. The computer calculates the most likely course of action based on those impulses, and can maneuver the ship accordingly, present battle strategies, or any number of other things.”
“So you’re saying it learns as it goes?”
“Naturally,” she replied as if it were common knowledge. “That’s why each fighter is assigned to a specific pilot.”
“What happens if we lose the fighter, but not the pilot?”
“The pilot gets another ship, of course. The computer’s brain is backed up in the ship’s flight recorder, so it’s easily downloaded into another craft—that is, if we manage to recover it. Otherwise the process starts all over again. In fact, it starts right here in the simulator. All the data recorded here will be introduced into your actual ship, once you get one assigned to you.”
“Sounds easy enough,” Shawn replied, hoping to be done with the technical lesson. Although he could wrap his mind around basic computer operations, he had a feeling he’d never fully understand how his brain could be linked to the fighter. Someone far smarter than he had built this thing, and it wasn’t his job to learn how to fix it. He just had to learn how to control it.
“Ready for preflight, Commander?” Drake asked over the intercom.
“Sure thing,” Shawn replied with all the confidence he could muster, rubbing his hands together and scanning through the controls once more. “Just tell me how to start the engines.”
An hour later, Shawn had a firm grasp on the basic operations of the fighter. Raven had taken him through a quick instrumentation familiarization, and even a few of the advanced operational levels before she was satisfied he was ready for takeoff.
The first level Drake had put them through was a simple point-to-point mission. They’d flown out in a straight line from the simulated carrier, a visually indistinguishable counterpart of the actual Rhea, circled a navigation buoy, then returned to land—which Shawn was able to accomplish only after crashing into the side of the carrier’s landing bay…twice.
From there, the missions became increasingly difficult. Some levels contained objects around which Shawn would need to navigate, such as asteroids, manmade space debris, or unstable spatial pockets. With each type of navigation hazard, there were multiple ways to circumvent it, and Shawn felt the old fighter skills coming back with each passing moment.
He was amazed at the overall realism in the simulator. Everything was projected in three dimensions, with resolution so high that it was impossible to distinguish it from reality. This was far different than piloting Sylvia’s Delight, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed being in the small, cramped cockpit of a sleek and nimble fighter, nor was he aware of the passage of time outside his sphere.
“Well, Commander. It looks like you’ve got the basics down,” Drake said from the control bubble. “What do you think, Raven? Should we see how well he fares against some targets?”
They weren’t scheduled for combat training today. Frankly, Roslyn was amazed at how well her new commanding officer had taken to the simulated Maelstrom fighter. They’d already progressed through today’s agenda and halfway into their next session in record time. She looked to Shawn’s three-dimensional image on her screen. “Well?”
He nodded back with approval. “Let’s try it.”
Brunel gave Shawn some quick instructions on weapon arming and operation. She decided to just stick to the particle cannons and the infusion beams for the moment, setting aside the various missiles and torpedoes for a later training session.
His first task was simple enough: destroy a small, non-moving object directly ahead of his shi
p.
Shawn spoke into the computer, requesting it to charge the particle cannons to half intensity.
“Ready,” the female voice responded curtly. When the target was locked in, Shawn slowly depressed the trigger on the control stick, causing a pencil-thin beam of blue-white light to emit from the tips of the wing-mounted cannons. The beams neatly converged on the rotating, reflective object and vaporized it instantly.
“That’s one down,” Drake said.
“Seemed easy enough,” Shawn replied, instantly regretting how cocky it sounded.
“Okay, now try this,” Drake offered.
The target instantly reappeared in front of Shawn’s craft, but when he attempted to shoot it, it moved slightly out of the way of his beams. Shawn tried again, maneuvering his craft in line with the target, but it effortlessly slid past his beams time and time again. Frustrated, he let out a grunt.
“You’re giving the target too much information.” Roslyn’s image said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the target knows what you’re planning to do based on the orientation of the fighter.”
Shawn shook his head in confusion. “Okay, so how do I shoot the target if I’m not pointed at it?”
“You think about it, then you do it.” The explanation sounded as simple as being told how to breathe.
“But, I don’t—”
“Just think about it,” she said with an air of petulance. “Focus on the target and what you want to do.”
He sighed deeply. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the target, about twenty degrees above the horizon of his craft and slightly to the left. He concentrated on it, wondering how on Third Earth he could blast it into a thousand spinning pixilated fragments, and, as he contemplated it, that’s precisely what happened.
“I didn’t pull the trigger,” he said in surprise when the target finished dematerializing.
“It’s the artificial intelligence, Commander,” Roslyn offered. “It anticipated your move based on the neural inputs from your helmet, like I told you. The tips of the cannons have reflectors that allow for a few degrees of movement without having to adjust the heading of the fighter. It’s virtually undetectable by enemy craft. The computer calculated that the target was within its firing arc and acted accordingly.”
Shawn looked at her image uncomfortably. “I still like to be in control of what and where I shoot.”
“You are. This is why it takes so long to learn all the nuances of these new fighters. If you can’t control your thoughts, then the ship will never respond the way you intend it to. It’s an extremely advanced system.”
“It’s dangerous.” Shawn replied with raised eyebrows.
“Only in untrained hands, Commander.” Her tone left little doubt about her current assessment of his skills.
“Can I turn it off?”
“Of course you can, but why would you want to?”
“I fire when I’m ready, when I’ve calculated all possible variables, and not a moment before.”
The disdain in Roslyn’s voice was apparent. “Fine. Simply tell the computer to disengage the neural interface to the weapons. I would, however, strongly advise you keep it active for maneuvering, especially when you’re still getting your feet wet with the new designs. It’ll make the transition a lot smoother.”
Shawn was quick to do just that. “Computer, disengage weapons control from neural interface.”
“Acknowledged, Commander.”
Satisfied to have a computer that listened to him for a change, he smiled appreciatively. “There,” he said with obvious approval. “Much better. What’s next?”
Raven’s holographic representation smiled broadly. “Targets that fire back, of course.”
Chapter 4
Shawn and Roslyn went through more than ten different combat scenarios in the simulator that morning. While it hardly seemed to have taken a toll on his executive officer, it had been physically exhausting for Shawn. First, he’d dealt with moving targets, and then ones that fired back—then a simulated enemy fighter took a crack at shooting down the commander. All the while Raven looked on, ready to jump to his aid if he required it. It wasn’t until Shawn had been confronted with four medium Kafaran fighters—rather testy ones at that—that Roslyn needed to intervene, and that was only to take a single fighter. Shawn had done the rest.
She had to admit, he was every bit as good a pilot as the stories told, perhaps even better. Had they had more simulator time scheduled, she would have wanted to find out. True, he was a little behind the times with communication procedures, and he wasn’t aware of some of the newer tactics that had been devised since the end of the war, but he was intimately aware of the basic maneuvers that every young pilot learns in space flight school. It also occurred to her that Kestrel seemed to have improved on a few of them. By lunch time, Roslyn could see he was beginning to tire from everything she and Drake had thrown at him, and she decided to call it a day.
Just before the spheroid shells opened, Drake called to Shawn over the communications channel from his position in the control room. “Nice flying, Commander. Can’t wait to see how you do out in the void.”
“Thanks, Drake,” Shawn replied wearily, wiping a newly formed bead of sweat from his brow. “It’s been real educational.”
“Don’t think this means I’m signing you off to jump into the real thing just yet,” Lieutenant Commander Brunel called out sharply from the second sim, tossing her head back and freeing her long black hair from the confines of her helmet.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Raven,” Shawn offered with his most sincere smile.
She stepped down the ladder to the deck and met Shawn at his sim as he was unstrapping himself from the cockpit. “All in all, though, I’d say you weren’t half bad.”
“What she means, Commander, is that you’ve done better than half the pilots on this ship ever have,” chuckled Drake over the loudspeakers.
Roslyn craned her head up to the simulator control room. “Eavesdropping again, Lieutenant I’rondus?”
“Sorry, ma’am,” he offered, but his tone suggested otherwise. “Guess I forgot to shut down the microphone. See you both in debriefing.” Drake shut down the remainder of his controls, and Shawn looked up at the observation bubble in time to see him make a hasty exit.
“What’d he mean by that?”
“Since it’s just you and me in here, you should know that you made it to level ten without so much as a scratch. That’s a new record.” Her tone held caution, as if she were trying to halt Shawn’s ego from overinflating. “The best anyone has ever done is level six.”
“And who would that be?” Shawn asked as he gathered up the umbilicals that had connected his flight suit to the sim. “You?”
“No,” she smiled modestly. “Not even I’m that good.”
“So who is—”
“Just remember,” she interrupted curtly. “I didn’t say anything. I’d hate to have the word spread that there’s another sim ace on board. Every pilot and his brother would be lining up to challenge you. We’ve got enough on our hands right now, and I don’t want anyone losing focus.”
“So who’s the other simulator ace, then?”
She smiled and jerked her head toward the compartment door, indicating Shawn should follow her. “Maybe if you live long enough, you’ll figure it out.”
*
After the debriefing, Shawn had wrangled up Jerry, Ensign McAllister, and Lieutenant Maltos for a quick bite to eat. The younger officers grilled him about his simulator time with Raven and Drake, but heeding Raven’s words, he was tight-lipped about the whole encounter. All he’d recounted was that he did well, and that he was looking forward to getting into a real fighter soon—even if was only for a patrol flight. Truth be told, he wasn’t nearly as excited about being behind the controls of a fighter as he was about getting back into space in general.
With their meal finished, the junior officers retired to the Rhea�
��s recreation deck, allowing Shawn some time to shower and change back into his normal service uniform. He sat down at his desk, pulling out the data cartridge Melissa had passed him the night before. As he absently fumbled with it, an image of her face crossed his mind. He thought back to when she’d singlehandedly knocked down two drunken patrols at Jack DeLorme’s bar back on Minos, and he reflexively smiled. He switched on his computer terminal and inserted the media, but before it could access the material there was a knock at his door.
“Come in,” he called out, flipping the computer into standby mode so as not allow it to be seen by prying eyes. In fact, it was Melissa who was at his door.
“Well, well, well,” Shawn began with satisfaction. “Look at what the OSI dragged in.”
“Very funny, Commander,” she said flatly.
Melissa had changed from her dark gray agent’s uniform into particularly attractive civilian attire. She was wearing dark, skintight pants made of a lightweight material, and an equally tight dark green top that was barely long enough to cover her flat stomach. Over the outfit she had a waistcoat made of dark brown material Shawn guessed was leather. Her knee-high boots, buckled in half a dozen places, looked as if they’d seen better days. Even though she was quite fetching, the foremost item that had caught his eye was the non-regulation blaster she had slung low over her right hip. Shawn recognized it as a plasma pistol—a highly lethal and quite illegal firearm.
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